A Brief Leave of Absence

This is goodbye, sweethearts.

Not like, a long goodbye, or a final goodbye. This is comma or a semicolon, not a period. I’m not getting married, or undergoing a sex change, or going into witness protection or anything. No one has knocked me up, and when they try to make me go to rehab, I’m still all like, “No, no, no.”

What actually is going on is that I’m taking a very small break from blogging so I can pursue a Very Big Thing. I cannot say exactly what this Very Big Thing is yet, because that would suck all of the fun out of it like a vacuum hose around an erect penis (note: please don’t try that home). But it’s an awesome big thing, very cool, totally awesome, you’ll all fucking love it. Swear to God.

Have the decency to miss me a little, my darlings, but do not mourn my absence because I’ll be back by New Year’s day to continue to deliver sub-par erotica to the glorious internets.

And I’m bringing friends😉

xoxo, Zelda

Crossing the Line #WickedWednesday

“I’m going to break you,” he says.

I spit in his face like I mean it. “I’d like to see you try.”

This is the delicate game that we play: love, hate and longing all tangled together in the sheets. He has my wrists tied to his bedposts and my chin in his hand. I anticipate the slap before it crashes against my cheek, but I don’t flinch. His secret police hit me harder when they brought me in.

The governor and the rebel– what a pair we make. He steps back from the bed and puts a gold ring on each finger of his fighting hand. I utter a string of curse words in a language that he’s banned. When his troops first invaded this land I call home, we slaughtered them by the thousands. When I’m in his bed, he makes me pay for it.

“You need to be taught a lesson, girl.” He cracks his knuckles like he scares me. “We told your kind to stay in your borders. This is what happens when you disobey orders.”

He straddles my stomach and teases my breasts out of my torn blouse. I feel his cock harden as he takes my nipples between his fingers and I pretend I don’t like it. He’s rough with them, vicious, neatly manicured nails biting into each rosy peak.

“Beg me not to,” he tells me.

“Eat shit.”

I know what comes next, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. He backhands me, one cheek then the other, so hard I see pretty colors. I can smell his cologne as his rings bruise my cheekbones. I open my mouth to cry out and accidentally bite my tongue. There’s the taste of blood: bright, tinny, warm.

“Does that make you feel like a man?” I growl. It’s only half an act. I hate him like a cat hates water, but there’s no denying the wetness between my legs as he pulls his knife and cuts me out of my breeches. My cause is my curse. I’m destined to despise all that he is, and to love every brutal second of how he makes my body feel.

This is the dance of a rough man and a rougher woman: He presses the edge of his knife against the curve of my left breast. I can feel it bruise my sternum. I kick him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs and his body off the bed. He loses the knife and I pick it up with my teeth. I’m cutting one wrist loose as he pulls his gun. I drop the knife and he brings the grip down on my temple. My world is spinning and I’m swimming in a sea of hurt as the weakened rope on my wrist finally snaps. I clap my free hand to his ear and he curses in pain, recoiling. I nearly have my second wrist free when he stops me with the click of a cocked gun. There’s cold metal at the base of my skull and a hard cock pressed against my ass. No white flag needed– he wouldn’t accept a surrender if I knew how to give one.

He uses my body like a solider uses a whore. I cum with his gun against my head. He has the decency not to fill me– neither of us want a bastard half-breed tied up in this war. He shoots his cum onto my back instead. It stains his fine linen sheets as he turns me over and uses my mouth until I’ve sucked him clean. He kisses me like I’ve been conquered, but we both know better. By morning, I’ll be picking off the guards on the border through the scope of my sniper rifle and he’ll be wishing he had just killed me when he had the chance.

He holds me after and I let him. I’ve got a fat lip and a bruised ego. He’s got a conscience. I wonder if I popped his eardrum. Probably not– if I did, he’d be sobbing.

I let myself sink into him, let him shield me with his warmth, but when he says it, I tense up like a deer in headlights:

“I love you.” His voice is hoarse as he presses the words into my ear.

I push his arm away and pick myself up out of his bed. He’s looking at me with those amber eyes like he’d give me the whole world if I would just say it back.

He ought to know better. I won’t.

I walk out the door naked. His guards know by now that I’m not to be touched. A string of words follows me out. They sound like “please” and “no” and “don’t leave” but I’ve got no will to listen. There are some lines you just don’t cross.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post! Wicked Wednesday is on Week #184, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #4. We’re on the subject of boundaries this week– is there anything in bed that you just won’t do? Let me know in the comments! xxx

A Chronic Dependence on Good Vibrations

This is me right now: huddled beneath four blankets in a bed and breakfast, the closest to my hometown I’ve been since I decided to ditch the States and become Rambling Bohemian Barbie, shivering and tea-sipping my way through the Lovecraftian horror of all stomach flus, and mourning the recent passing of the only vibrator I brought back with me (which isn’t so much Dead-dead as it is Battery-dead, thank god).

Ah, yes. As you can imagine, I am the picture of sexuality right now. May God smile down on the kind soul who can manage to a modicum of attraction to my frail trembling body beneath two layers of long johns and an oversized Motley Crue t-shirt I used to wear as a dress back in high school.

The vibrator thing is getting to me, though. My typical mountain climbing, nightclubbing, wild child self gets all Jekyl-and-Hyde when it comes to being sick. In fact, I reckon the only thing I AM capable of right now is casual masturbation– which has been thoroughly thwarted by the aforementioned dead batteries in my weapon of choice.

I wasn’t always this way– swear to god. In the pre-vibrator years (some of which were when I wasn’t legally allowed into a sex store, some when I didn’t have real access to one, some when I was scared shitless of someone catching me perusing the local dildo aisle) I was like a sex toy MacGyver. Chuck me a condom, a spent toilet paper roll and a rubber band and I could jerry-rig something to get me off in five minutes flat.

But in the post-vibrator years, I thought that those skills would only be useful during an inevitable prison stint (and only if I didn’t get wifed by some sex-kitten Alex Vause type first, naturally).

These years of vibrating my way to Pleasureville have been that kind of luxury that, to quote sub-par 80’s hair metal band Cinderella, “you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” But now, in my sober, sorry state, I wonder if this isn’t a good thing. Maybe there’s really such a thing as too much good vibrations– maybe it’s time to stop humping a motorized piece of plastic and really get back to my roots. Remind myself of the magic that my own fingers create.

And barring that, I’ve got three magnums, some lube and a cucumber in the fridge. I’ve never really been the veggie-fetish type, but I mean, a girl’s gotta do…


So, what’s your preference? Do you vibrate along all night long, or do you prefer manual mode? Ever gone on a sabbatical from your sex toys? Unfortunate vibrator-related stories? Talk to me in the comments, lovelies xx

Uncharted Pleasures #WickedWednesday


Just take some soil samples, they said.

It’ll be easy, they said.

The air was breathable on the alien planet, which was lucky because halfway through filling her first test tube, her oxygen supply had been wrecked. The bubblegum pink suction cups had come out of nowhere, latched onto her helmet, ripped it off and flung it away.

She might have been scared, but the planet’s atmosphere also had a pretty high nitrous oxide content. Instead, she felt giddy. Floaty. Dreamlike and flying high.

Every breath left her head spinning deliciously, her glasses askew as she watched the tentacle slither toward her. Her toppled test tubes and extraction kit laid scattered around her, already forgotten. She knew she should recoiled when the tentacle reached out to stroke the boot of her space suit, but the instead the nitrous left her feeling euphoric. The suction cups along its bottom sucked against the boot’s ankle, released and climbed upward. She knew she should have tried to scamble away from it as it wound its way up her leg. Maybe it was the scientist in her. Maybe it was way If she had thought to scream, she might have– but there wouldn’t have been anyone to hear it, anyway. The planet was supposed to be totally uninhabited.

Apparently, the tentacle currently curling around her upper thigh hadn’t gotten the memo.

It ripped the bottom half of her suit away like it was pulling apart cotton candy. Four thousand dollars of high tech protective synthetics, ruined just like that. The sensor in her ear was beeping frantically, alerting her to the danger of being so exposed, but it seemed so secondary to the way the planet’s sun warmed her tanned calves, her bare thighs. The heat between her legs.. well, that was all her own. She was wet, she realized, and she couldn’t tell whether that was because of the nitrous or because of the way the tentacle returned to her– this time, with a friend.

They tickled their way up her legs, suction cups kissing her skin gently like twin lovers. She found herself bound by them as they wrapped around the thickness of her thighs and flexed tight. No escape– not even if she wanted to. She didn’t. Her clit radiated with longing, pulsing along with her heart beat. She was aching to be touched, and every breath only made that wanting worse.

The next tentacle to appear over the edge of the rockface were full of rough promise. The first shot out demandingly and tore away the front of her suit, revealing her breasts. She’d been effectively stripped by them, she realized– all of her most delicate parts bared for the taking. When it had rid her of the last barrier between her breasts and the warm alien air, it snaked behind her, binding her arms together tight. To her delight, she found herself lifted up off of the ground and suspended in the air, chest pushed out garishly, legs spread.

Tied and helpless, she watched two more tentacles pop over the edge of the cliff. Her nipples, hard and taunt and throbbing, were their targets. These tentacles lacked the suction cups of the others she’d encountered so far. Instead, they ended in two bulbs that hovered over her tender pink areola. The blubs opened up to reveal several rows of dull teeth that latched onto her nipples viciously. There was a desperate suction to them and a gentle bite that sent sensation coursing through her nervous system. The pleasure and pain were practically indiscernible, irrevocably bound to one another.

She was brimming with the need to be filled now, so badly she could feel it in the roots of her teeth.

When the final tentacle appeared, she couldn’t just blame it on the euphoria of the air she was breathing anymore. She wanted it. Desperately. The thin line separating want from need had dissolved in the wetness between her legs, even as the tentacles holding her thighs spread them wider and the teeth at her nipples twisted them until she was moaning in delicious agony.

The last tentacle was slick and streamlined. It left a warm gooeyness on her inner thigh as it stroked her, almost lovingly, before sliding between her pussylips and pressing in. She whimpered for it as it expanded inside of her, adjusting its thickness to fill her tight. The sensation was surreal. She had never been filled so thoroughly, so comfortably. It fit her like it had been made to, pressing up against her g-spot so hard she was spasming in moments, gasping, bright colors all around as it brought her to orgasm, the sounds of her own pleasure amplified by the atmospheric high.

At some point, she passed out.

When she awoke, she was inside her spaceship again, a thick creamy wetness between her legs that tasted of hazelnuts and vanilla. Her test tubes had been filled with soil and carefully lined up in their holders on her console. She was naked, but wrapped gently in a soft blanket from the ship’s bunk.

She almost didn’t believe it had happened at all as she set her coordinates for homebase and prepared to launch. But as she looked down at her wrists, her forearms, her thighs, she knew it had been more than just a dream. The tentacles had left their mark on her, purple hickies from the suction cups marking every few inches of her skin, bruised reminders of the greatest pleasure she had ever know.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post and my first foray into the weird world of tentacle porn. Wicked Wednesday is on Week #183, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #3. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something😉 xox

Sushigirl in Love #WickedWednesday

She thought it would make the job easier, being covered up, but she thought wrong. A maki roll over each nipple, the ebi nigiri across her rib cage, futomaki down her stomach and sashimi covering her mons pubis made her feel more naked, not less. Having it stripped away by wealthy businessmen, each piece elegantly removed by well-handled chopsticks… that was just icing on the shame-cake.

A decade before, a girl like her could have made ends meet on the street corner. It would have been dark, hurried, impersonal. A couple of sloppy blowjobs, a few minutes of dry thrusting in a back seat, and she would have had enough cash to cover rent. But now there were sexbots for that, dead-eyed women of perfectly toned silicone– which was what the johns had wanted in the first place. She didn’t have a voice box that could be turned from sweet and innocent to rich and sultry with the flip of a switch. She was flesh and blood, imperfections and skin flushed pink with embarrassment beneath the white imitation geisha face paint the Sushigirls had to wear as a man with a deep frown line in the middle of his handsome brow traced the tips of his chopsticks up her thigh.

If she hadn’t been laying down, she would have trembled.

He had an ad man’s haircut and a thousand dollar suit. He’d been a regular since before she started working at the Floating World sushi parlor, where the businessmen entertained their clients with the rare delicacy of perfectly prepared tempura and nigiri eaten off of real, live naked women. But after  the first time she had laid at his table, looking elegant as his business partners chuckled and plucked California rolls off of her collarbone, he had requested her every time since. She didn’t know why– she wore the same white face, black eyeliner and red lips as any of the other girls, and laid there just as still– but she had become a regular at his table, and he came nearly every night now.

His chopsticks lingered at the shallow valley where her thigh met her sex. She was meant to keep her eyes trained on the ceiling, but she let them stray to see the look on his face. Her gaze was met with steely grey eyes. He’d been watching her, waiting to see if she reacted. Briefly, she wondered if it had been a test– then one of his business partners tweaked her nipple with his chopsticks, and a roar of laughter followed as he played it off as a mistake. Her grey-eyed patron smirked, but he didn’t join in. Instead, he peeled the final piece of swordfish sashimi away from skin and raised it to his mouth. He ate it like he was tasting her, obviously savoring the salty freshness of the meat.

She loved him, she realized. Not true love, no, but something akin to it. She loved him even as his chopsticks returned to stroking her inner thigh, which wasn’t allowed. The clients weren’t supposed to touch the Sushigirls, only the sushi– but he was a man who didn’t seem to care for rules.

They all left in a hurry, sorting out whose suitjacket was whose in a bluster of designer labels and expensive cologne. No one wanted to linger for long after dinner was done. She supposed, in the grand scheme of things, she was just an appetizer for their evening– their main course was attached to chargers in the robo-brothels down the street, girls with silicone lips who had been programmed not to say no.

But the man with the grey eyes stayed, long after his companions had gone.

Her body felt dirty, sticky with soy sauce and lingering saltiness. Her patron didn’t seem to care, though. Not as he rose from his seat and rounded the table. Not as he grabbed her hips and pulled her to him, so she was just at the table’s edge, her legs spread. He didn’t seem to care about anything, really– not the rules, not his business partners, and certainly not about the sexbot brothel down the road– only about her, her body, the unspoken desire between them that felt as real and solid as a silver chain collared around her neck and held in his hand.

His tongue was dark pink and warm as he licked his lips, then licked hers, up and down and up and down until she could have begged him to take her– but she didn’t have the words. He pushed his tongue between her pussylips, claiming the salty sweet wetness between them. His tongue traced along her labia minora until her thighs trembled. There was a whimper that she held in her mouth for as long as she could stand it, but when his lips found her clitoris, it eased out of her desperately. His fingers teased her entrance, and against her will her hips bucked wildly as he pressed them inside of her.

She came hard, his perfect hairstyle ruined in the clutches of her fingers, his lips covered in her juices, her ankles crossed against the crisp collar of his dress shirt.

When he smiled up at her, the frown line between his brows seemed to have momentarily disappeared.

“A tip,” he said, as if that explained it all. He kissed her lips gently once, and then rough and full of longing. His tongue tasted like her, and like saltwater and sake.

“Next week?” she asked sweetly. Her voice sounded breathless and hopeful and small.

“Soon,” he promised, and then he was gone– before the bouncer or one of the other girls could discover the secret of their brief tryst. She watched him go, still tasting him on her lips. Sushi would never taste the same again.


This has been a Wicked Wednesday post, highlighting my deep yearning for some good sushi and even better sex (I’m home for the holidays and alas, landlocked again). Wicked Wednesday is on Week #182, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #2. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something😉 xox

Silk and Velvet Beneath His Hand #WickedWednesday

It was a dark place, all black velvet and cool silk against her eyelids.

By day she was messy, fast-moving, fast-talking, timid. That was how he had first found her: in a white thrift-store blouse stained with coffee dribbles down the front, a lilac pencil skirt that was two seasons out of fashion and straining at the seams of her hips. Ill-fitting pumps from the half-price shoe store down the road. A bad perm that frizzed up when it rained. When she remembered those days, she could barely believe he’d given her a first look, let alone a second.

At first, she thought he must have first talked to her just out of the goodness of his heart. That’s what she saw herself as, anyway: a charity case. She was used to men like him talking to her, men with stiff jawlines and immaculate stubble, men in designer suits. They flirted with her as a joke while they bought scarves for their wives and girlfriends– scarves that cost more than what she’d make in a whole month. But he’d been different. All charm, no laughing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She’d learned it too late: a man like him didn’t do anything out of some moral sense of obligation. He’d seen something in her that day at the department store, something deep below her messiness and her paygrade. Something intimate and forbidden and closed off from the rest of the world– but men like him knew a submissive streak when they saw it. It was like how men intrinsically knew when the stripper they were tipping was ovulating. Mother Nature at her best– or her worst.

His hand came down hard against the bare curve of her ass, just like it had done dozens of times before that moment. But where at first the spanking had come in brutal, painful waves, now she was removed from it. Somewhere else entirely. The hotel room that he rented weekly for their little sessions melted away, just like the whole world had when he first asked her that all important question: “Have you ever been disciplined?” Since that day, she’d been whipped. Paddled. But his hand was always her favorite. It took her to places deeper and darker than she’d ever imagined. His skin against her skin. The softness of the bedspread beneath her cheek. The hardness of his cock against her stomach as she laid across his lap.

He built up a rhythmic crescendo with his hand while she sang the melody in tiny coos and heartfelt moans. Beneath the blindfold of his tie across her eyes, the blackness ignited into multicolored fireworks. She was dripping. Every blow was felt in her clit as much as she felt it on her ass. By day, she was insignificant. But by night, on the nights he had her, she was powerful and charged with something darkly beautiful beneath his hand.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post by your favorite slutty pink-haired… writer-type… thing– me! Wicked Wednesday is on Week #179, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #1. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something😉 xoxo Zelda

Purchased & Forbidden (The Billionaire’s Little Princess #1)

November 3rd – 5th: GET IT FOR FREE!

Have we as a society beaten this billionaire thing to death yet? Personally, I think maybe. Probably. But then again… who’s stopping me?

Chanel is a busty brat with an addiction to couture. When her shopping addiction runs her trust fund dry, she finds herself at the mercy of mafia loan sharks with a price on her head.

Her only hope is the wallet of Dane DuPoint, the dangerously good looking man of the house (divorce papers pending). When she was younger, Chanel always loved playing damsel in distress with Dane, but this time, her knight in shining armor thinks she’s taken their game way too far.

Dane’s billionaire bank account might be able to bail Chanel out of her sticky situation, but in Dane’s world of luxury and glamour, nothing comes for free. As Dane sets out to discipline Chanel for her bad behavior, her own dark side is revealed. Paid for but forbidden, Chanel might be the princess of the castle– but Dane is clearly the king.

This is a 9,000-word erotic romance short involving a sexy older alpha male billionaire and a mouthy blonde brat in a taboo tryst. It features spanking, dominance, submission and light female bisexuality. Luxury, opulence and spicy hot chemistry!


Enjoy an excerpt, special, just from moi xx

The door clicked into its lock behind me and I felt my shoulders tense in anticipation. I wished he would just get it over already. Yell. Scream. Slap my face. Call me out for what I was: a spoiled brat whose trailer trash past would always catch up to her. An addict for luxuries I couldn’t afford. A leech. A bitch. The dumb cunt who had cost him dearly just because she couldn’t keep her spending habits in check. Hell– I was the daughter of the woman who was serving him papers for divorce settlement of the century. I knew he had it in him, and I knew that I was ready to take it.

Plus, I deserved it. I knew that most of all.

But Dane didn’t scream at me. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t say anything– not at first. He just walked over to a plush leather armchair and let his body fall back into it, the Manhattan skyline at his back.

Now that I could get a clear look at him, not even the room’s flattering amber glow could hide his fatigue. I saw the wrinkles in his white linen shirt, the kind that always worked their way into cloth in airplane seats. I saw the reddish tinge in the whites of his eyes– they didn’t call them red-eye flights for nothing. And as he poured himself a glass of bourbon from a decanter on the end table beside him, I saw it in his furrowed brow. The sleeplessness. The worry. The frustration.

“Take off your shoes.”

I startled at the sound of his voice, then nodded and bent down to undo the straps of my stilettos.

It was an odd request– or so I thought until I saw the way that my feet were bleeding. Give it to the high fashion world to sucker a girl into paying five thousand dollars for foot torture. Across my toes and at the backs of my heels, the straps of the shoes had left my skin painful and raw. After the night I’d had, it felt good to finally have them off. Hell, it felt like heaven.

“Now my jacket.” He was the picture of casual confidence, one leg crossed over the other as he sipped at his bourbon.

Wiggling my toes against the plush rug beneath my feet, I slipped the jacket off my shoulders. I dropped it on the ground next to my shoes and looked to Dane for his next order.

He shook his head from side to side. “Didn’t anyone teach you manners, Chanel? Hang it up.”

Suppressing an eye roll– what did it matter? They cleaned the rooms at the Oriental twice a day– I bent down and retrieved the jacket. When it was hanging on the coat rack, I crossed my arms and turned back to Dane.

“Next time you throw something on the floor like that, you’ll be punished,” he said.

That time, I couldn’t have contained my eye roll even if I wanted to.

“Punished?” I laughed, hard and dry. “You can’t be serious.”

He looked serious.

That scared me.

“Take off your dress,” he said.

My mouth fell open into a perfect, round O.

“You’re fucking with me,” I accused.

The look on his face told me he wasn’t.

To my horror, I found myself struggling to reach behind my back for the zipper. I was shocked. Annoyed. And I was struggling to follow his orders anyway.

Dane DuPoint was a dangerous man like that.

I’d marveled at Dane’s ability to do that, to bend the wills of others to his own, so many times as a young girl. Like most teens, I had wanting nothing more than to do exactly that. Have my way. Get it every time. I’d seen Dane use it on his business associates, his friends, store clerks and telemarketers. He’d even been able to master my mother with it, for time. Stray dogs would trot over to Dane at his slightest whistle. I’d seen them do it. Then, they would roll over and flash their bellies to him, wag their tails and lick his hand.

“Come here,” Dane said. It had become clear to him that my dress wasn’t coming undone without some help.

My uncanny willingness to follow Dane’s commands said as much about me as it did about him. I was no better than those dogs.

We were one and the same.

My aching feet crossed onto cool wooden floorboards and back to carpet again as I approached him. I was wary of Dane DuPoint. I was scared of what he could make me do and even more afraid of how good it felt to obey. But I was also wary of what might happen if I didn’t. The threat was suspended, unspoken between us but entirely understood. Dane had bought my freedom, and he could sell it right back, too.

Subconsciously, at least, I had known that when I gave Tony Fortunato Dane’s number. It wasn’t kinship that I had counted on to bring Dane to my aid. It wasn’t sympathy or a soft heart. Men didn’t get to where Dane was in life by handing out favors– especially not million-dollar ones. I’d known that if Dane came, it was because he thought he could get something out of it in return. I’d just suspected that the “something” would be testimony against my mother in their divorce case.

I stood in front of Dane, my knees shaking, as he grabbed either side of my dress’ ripped neckline and tore it off of me.

I had never imagined that he might have wanted that.

I was suddenly more exposed than I had been all night. The low hum of the suite’s heater did little to change that. Beneath Dane’s gaze, I felt my skin prickle until every hair follicle on my body felt as if it was standing on end. He poured over my body with his eyes like I was a legal textbook and he had a case to win. He left no visible curve unexamined. Not a single uncovered inch.

And I still had my bra and panties on.

“Bra off,” Dane said, obviously keen to rectify that.

It was then that we stood on the precipice between inappropriate and utterly wrong. The shoes– that had been normal. Practically intuitive. We were in for the night. They’d been killing my feet. The dress– that too I could explain away for my own peace of mind. It had been ripped, ruined. I would have needed help out of it either way. A little T&A for his troubles? I could understand that. I could forgive him that.

But as my fingertips danced against the clasp of my bra, I knew that once it was undone, there was no turning back.

Liked it? Loved it? Neeeeeeeeed it? GET IT! 100% free from now until Saturday… no strings attached😉

xoxo Zelda

Slumming it #MasturbationMonday

They called it slumming. That was what it was.

She could see the limousine coming from a mile away. The roads were flat in the slums, but the women had curves. That was about half of the reason rich, arrogant assholes made their way to the rough side of town. They wanted something to hold onto while they fucked. The girls uptown had delicate china bones and less fat on them than a top sirloin steak. Those girls couldn’t take it rough. They were too valuable to break and they didn’t know how.

The limo pulled up alongside her corner and she got in, ripped fishnets sliding against expensive leather apolstery.

The other reason why the rich came to the slums was pure superiority. They liked that they could own a girl like her for mere pocket change. She held out her hand and five hundred dollars was placed into it. For them, it was the interest accrued on their savings account that month. For her, it was rent for that month and the next and the next.

She counted her money before she looked at them, but when she did look, she wasn’t exactly displeased. They were the handsome rich, good-looking as they were wealthy. It meant that their personalities were shit, of course– no man ever had all three– but it made her job easier. No matter what the romance novels said, sex wasn’t about personality. Sex was about power, first and foremost, and then it was about physical attraction.

She’d done worse on a Monday night.

“Full service?” Her lips were thick, glossy red with cheap lipstick. They didn’t make lips like those uptown– not without collagen injections, anyway.


The dark one spoke first, his accent elegant and cultured. He had hair slicked back like a 1950’s ad man, sharp features, oil slick eyes. He and his friend sat across from her in the limo. They beckoned her to them with their index fingers, all come hither with their eyes. She crawled to them on her hands and knees to close the distance. They always loved it when she crawled.

“Blow us.”

The fair one had a rougher accent– a self made man? She’d never know, but she could tell that the silver spoon in his mouth wasn’t quite as large as the dark one’s. The fair man had a broader jaw and cornflower eyes. His hair was shorter, unstyled. There was a scar across his left eye that cut straight through his heavy brow. The dark man looked like an aristocrat. The fair man, a mercenary.

She undid their belts one by one, methodically. One buckle, then the other. One button, then the other. Their cocks emerged erect– a good sign. They wanted her, hard with longing. Hard cocks, she adored. There was nothing more unsatisfying than a limp cock in her mouth, especially since some of their owners couldn’t get it up at all– not even for a downtown girl.

The dark man was circumcised. The fair one was not. Apart from that, their cocks were practically twins. The same handsome, even color of flesh. The same luscious pink glans. She could hardly decide which to lick first. They stared down at her expectantly, as eager to see who she would choose as she was to begin.

It was the fair man’s, she decided as she slid his foreskin back and took the head into his mouth. Uncircumcised men had a natural beauty to their cock’s– and they were more sensitive. As she ran her tongue around the head, the fair man hissed and bucked his hips. Intensity. She loved that sound. It was what kept her on the streetcorners instead of in the factories. It was a pleasure to please.

The second man was far more reserved. She went at his cock with long, quick puppy-dog licks. Eager to please. Ecstatic.

She had a cock in each fist by the time she could truly study the two men. She wondered what their relationship was– why they had come together. It wasn’t unusual for men to come in groups. They loved to gangbang the cheap whores, all of them throwing in five dollars and getting a whole night’s worth of entertainment from it. But if they didn’t come in hordes, they almost always came alone. Were they best friends? Lovers? Not brothers– if you took away their designer suits, they would have looked like they were from two different worlds.

As she moved her mouth from one cock to the other, sucking back and forth, she watched their heads tip backward simultaneously, their eyes fall closed in the pleasure of it. That was odd too– usually, they liked to watch. She was all smudged eyeliner and cheap mascara, her breasts bouncing heavy in the low cut of her top. Her skirt rode up as she bent over them, and she could feel herself growing wet. Hot. Longing.

They smelled like mint and citrus, tasted like salt and musk. That was the best thing about the rich men– they were clean, more often than not. Sometimes, they would come in dirty, but that was just because they liked the look on a girl’s face when they forced her mouth down on it. These two were impeccable, though. Even their fingernails were clean as they dug them into the leather of their seats.

She plunged lower, taking one all the way down her throat then the other. They were close now, side by side and grunting softly. The dark man came first as she pumped his cock in her fist. His cum shot everywhere: her hand, the door, his own thigh and across the fair man’s pelvis. And then, just like that, the fair man came as well– right down her throat and into her stomach.

“Lick us clean,” the dark one commanded. He was breathless. They both were.

As she laid in her bed after, the darkness of her tiny, shitty apartment swallowing her whole, she slipped her fingers between her legs and thought of that moment. The way the two men held each other’s gaze as she slurped up every last bit of the dark one’s cum off of muscled skin and hairy thigh. Creamy. Delectable. Rich men had better tasting cum, the other girls always said. It was the first time she believed it. It had been sweet. Delicious.

She was slick as she touched herself, remembering the way that the dark one must have discovered that too. When she had straightened her skirt, she’d seen the money change hands. A roll of bills from the dark man’s fingers into the fair man’s pocket. The dark one had reached over then and stroked the fair man’s cock once, twice, squeezing out the last remnants of the fair man’s cum. And then, he had dipped his dark head low and licked it off, the final drop that she had missed.

If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday! Like somebody probably once said, two is better than one! This is week 61 for the rest of the MM crowd and week #3 for me. TELL ME THAT I DID A GOOD JOB OKAY? Blow up that motherfucking comment section and validate my sense of self worth, you beautiful bastards.
xoxo Zelda

Netflix & Chill #MasturbationMonday


It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

She’d realized her mistake as soon as she made it. Maybe even as she was making it. When he’d texted, “Can I come over?” she’d responded, “Sure :)”– smiley face, not a winky face. Friendly, but not too suggestive. She’d been putting out that vibe for weeks now, hoping that it might draw him in closer. It had been her goal to let him know that she was interested while making it clear that she was, above all else, a good girl.

But good girls didn’t text their best friends’ fathers, and the definitely didn’t hang out with them casually, one on one, watching Battlestar Gallactica together on Netflix and drinking beers . She’d known it was wrong before his hand had wandered to rest on her inner thigh. After…

After, she was too turned on to care.

His fingers traced the ragged hem of her jean shorts, stroking the smooth tanned skin that it bordered. She knew that she should have swatted his hand away, gone on playing their little cat and mouse game. It had happened before, a brief touch here, a flash of skin there, but they’d always kept each other in check up to that point. It would only take a little slap of her hand against his and a dismissive giggle to end it, but as his fingers tickled beneath the hem of her cutoffs, she realized that she didn’t want it to end. She’d known for a while now that all of the flirtations, the teasing Snapchats, the heated texting would all come to a head. She just hadn’t expected it to be just then. But if her heart wasn’t ready to consummate their little affair, her body didn’t give a shit. Just at the slightest brushing of his fingers against her skin she could feel her pussy grow hot and wet in anticipation.

She could only imagine what it would feel like to have those fingers farther north, or even better, to feel him move inside of her.

A moan escaped her lips, involuntary but not exactly unwelcome. She didn’t have the words to tell him how good it felt, how bad she wanted more, more, more– but that tiny little exhale of pleasure that slipped through her strawberry lipgloss pout was enough to make it clear. She could tell by the way he looked at her. His dark eyes were brimming with something, a brooding stir of desire and shame that she knew all too well. Would he be brave enough to face it, she wondered? Her clit twitched, aching with need. If he wasn’t, she wouldn’t be able to stand it.

She moaned again and he licked his lips, hungry for her. His hands were on her hips then, pulling him to her, and her heart soared.

How far they had come. Ten years ago, she’d just been the mouthy, mousy neighbor girl from across the road and he’d been the handsome father of the only girl in her class who would talk to her. He’d made her pancakes and smoothies for breakfast on the mornings she would sleep over at their house, flipping each flapjack up in the air until it was spinning high overhead. She’d fallen in love with his smile, his early morning stubble and the Navy anchor tattoo on his left bicep a thousand times before he had so much as looked at her– but there he was, his cock hard beneath her as she straddled him, his lips just inches away from a kiss that had been building in her imagination for the better part of a decade.

“Are you sure you want this?” His voice was rough, like he was straining to force himself to ask for consent.

She answered by forcing her lips against his. She didn’t have words anymore. If she had opened her mouth, it would have sounded like so much begging: Want. Need. Please, please, please.

He tasted like Guinness, bitter coffee grounds and dark chocolate. His stubble tickled her chin, her cheeks, but his lips were warm and smooth and inviting. His mouth felt like home to her, and she wanted it. God, she wanted it on every inch of her body, every secret place. She imagined those lips on the softest places of her body: the crook of her elbows, behind her ears, at the hollow of her collarbone, at the place where her leg met her sex.

She kissed him like she would never kiss him again. As far as she knew, she wouldn’t be able to. Men like him didn’t fall for girls like her. She might have gotten tits and an ass since high school graduation, but when she was around him she felt as lovesick as the schoolgirl who had shown up on his doorstep when she was ten years old, wanting to know if his daughter could come out and play. And at the same time, as he worked his hands against her new found curves like he wanted to imprint on his memory their exact feel, their exact shape, she felt all woman, awakened and alive beneath his touch.

“Turn over,” he said, wrestling his lips away. When she didn’t respond quickly enough, he moved her himself, flipping her over on his lap so she was facing away from him. With one hand, he found her hair and twisted it around his palm. With the other, he reached around her waist and stroked the seam of her shorts, a layer of denim and a layer of lace away from touching the warm wetness of her cunt…

“Tell me you want it,” he growled. His teeth scraped against her neck as he pulled her head to the side. She was utterly in his control now, without any means of escape, and she loved it. She needed. She wanted. He filled her up so full of longing, it seemed almost unfair that he was forcing her to ask for it, beg for it, part her lips and let it out.

“Please,” she whimpered.

There was a long suspended moment where she was certain that he was going to deny her. That he was going to push her off of his lap, put on his shoes and head for the door.

But just as she was certain that it was over, he unbuttoned her shorts with an effortless flick of his fingers.

He undressed her faster than she could have undressed herself. Beneath his touch, her clothes disappeared, flung across the room far away from their position on the couch. Shirtless, pantless and, with only a quick wiggle of her ass on her own part, panty-less, she sat on his lap and felt the hard length of his cock against her ass as he touched her. His fingers traced up one thigh, down the other, and then they brought her what she had wanted for so bad, for so long. His fingertips moved against her clit, rubbing and rolling it beneath them as she whimpered and sighed. They stroked her labia, dipping down to fill her like she had always dreamed of. And in due time, he ravished her in ways that she never could have dreamed– bringing her to orgasm over and over again with only his hands, his lips at her neck and his fingers dripping. Her body convulsed against his in pleasure, toes curling as they hooked around his ankles, nipples hard and aching, mouth open in passion and desperation as every nerve ending in her body was repeatedly and relentlessly overwhelmed.

He sucked his fingers into his mouth when he was done with her. She collapsed against him– it was either that or falling straight onto the floor. Her legs felt like the bones had come out of them. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her knees from trembling.

He kissed her as the credits rolled and Netflix suggested that they watch the next episode. But as he gently removed her from his lap, she knew that their time was up– he had to go.

“We should… do that again sometime,” she said. Her voice sounded so small, so timid, but so utterly hopeful. She stared up at him, biting her lip as he rose.

“I’m not sure I could handle it if we didn’t,” he replied. There was a grin on his face wider than she’d ever seen it before.

And even as he walked out of the door, she couldn’t help but feel smugly satisfied at the way his jeans strained against the pressure of the big, stiff erection they concealed as he went.

If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday, where getting off is only a right-click away. Masturbation is good for you– so this week, don’t settle for doing it alone. This is week 60 for the rest of the MM crowd and week #2 for me. For the love of god, comment if you liked this and read all of the other sexy posts this week– there are LOADs.
xoxo Zelda

Going His Way

She shouldn’t have been out so late, but that had never stopped her before. Her delicate, strappy stilettos and the plunging neckline of her dress broadcasted both her sex and her vulnerability. She might as well have stripped naked and painted a target on her back. To a strange man’s eyes, her look said, “Harass me. I’m obviously asking for it.

Was that what the man sitting across from her was thinking? Possibly. He was in formal wear too– not unusual for a Saturday night in the city. Tailored suit, black, silk lapels, thin tie. Crisp white shirt beneath. Shined shoes. Pleated pants. What was unusual was that they were alone in the subway car, entirely without company except for each other. Not even the city’s homeless were out on the trains this late.

It occurred to her that if he tried something, there wouldn’t be anyone to hear her scream.

If she’d been a smart girl, she would have gone home earlier. Tumbled into the back of a taxi with her girlfriends. Stumbled back into her apartment, downed a bottle of water, popped some aspirin, turned on Friends. Passed out safely between cool sheets behind a locked door.

But there was no thrill in playing things safe. That was what she told herself: that she was a thrill-seeker, an adrenaline junkie, a wild girl with no inhibitions. But that wasn’t it, was it? No– the excitement of the danger was secondary. What she really wanted was to live unconstrained by fear.

That’s what it was.

Slowly, she mimicked her companion’s posture. The friendly arm draped out over the neighboring seat, like he was making a move on a blind date in a darkened movie theater. The confident line of his lips, the look of superiority in his eyes as he watched her. She watched those eyes trail downward as she perfected her pose: a mirror image of this strange man across the subway car, she spread her legs wide, like a peep-show whore or a man asserting his ownership of the space.

The dress was too short to conceal much. Her panties had been discarded before she even left her apartment that evening– they made lines in the dress. She knew he had a full view of her sex, the dark curls of her pubic hair, the shadows in the dampening ravine between her pussy lips.

There was the clank of a belt. The sound of a zipper. And then, there he was, cock in hand. His lips said something else now, wordlessly smirking at her. Smug. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.

She didn’t allow herself to glance around suspiciously, ensuring they were alone. Now it was a challenge, a game of chicken beneath the glow of the subway lights. He pumped his cock once, twice, staring her down. Your move.

Her heels scraped against the floor of the car as she shifted. She was spread wider now, even more exposed. Always the entertainer, she traced her inner thighs with her fingertips first like a magician doing slight of hand. But even her sense of showmanship couldn’t stop her from the final destination of those fingers. They moved upward, teasing the damp curls of hair on her labia, slicking against the sensitive inner lips. Brushing up, then down, then circling around her clit. The movements of her fingers said, “I know how to please myself. Could you do as well?

If he understood her, his only response was to pump his cock harder.

Who was this man, this handsome stranger sharing the end of her night? A businessman, headed home after a long meeting? A club promoter on his way back from work? He had all of the refined good looks of an haughty heir of a huge fortune, a billionaire out on the town, riding the subway all through the night as he tried to remind himself how the lower class lived.

She was in love with him and in hate with him all at once. His scruffy, shadowed facial hair; the sleek style of his auburn locks; the way he devoured her with his eyes as he stroked himself, hard and erect beneath strong fingers. He clenched himself harder as she slipped her middle finger between her folds and deep into her pussy, then her index to follow. She strummed her g-spot like the string of a bass guitar, hitting note after note in perfect succession until her heels were digging deep into the floor of the car and her shoulders were tensed hard against the window at her back, braced for release.

When she came, she came violently. Orgasm hit her like a shotgun shell to the chest and she reveled in it. Her body bucked and trembled like that of a woman possessed, and all along she watched him watching her until he found his orgasm as well. His semen shot upward, onto his shirt and lapels. There was so much of it, an intoxicating amount.

Before she could control herself, she found herself rocked down on her hands and knees, crawling towards him despite the dirty floor like an animal stalking prey. She lapped it up, fulfilling the craving, giving into the need. Long, slow cat-licks, slurping as she cleaned his semen from the silk of his lapels, the linen of his shirt, the velvet of his tie.

He was going to have a hell of a dry cleaning bill.

His gaze was paralyzing as she licked her lips clean: hazel eyes, bright like a harvest moon. She knew she should say something, but what was there to say? Her arsenal of witticisms had escaped her.

Instead, she pushed off of his knees and brought herself to her feet. The slow, rocking motion of the train settled as it pulled into the station: her stop.

And silently, she straightened her skirt and winked at him before she broke his gaze and left the car, stepping out into the night.

If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday, where getting off is only a right-click away. Masturbation is good for you– so this week, don’t settle for doing it alone. This is week 55 and my first go at a submission, but there’s a whole hell of a lot more where that came from and much, much more left to come.
xoxo Zelda